


El Duende Agridulce

by Arlesienne



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: All kinds of dirt to the point of disease, Crows, Crows everywhere..., Dark forces are out there gathering, Death is everywhere, Emotional violence, Every single one’s got a story to tell, F/F, F/M, Innocence is wasted, Is "I promise to fill this in one day/maybe/perhaps" a valid tag?, It gets dark around here early (because of all the Crows), It might be fun to make a stand, It’s a lot like life (and that’s what’s appealing), Lots of surprises in store, M/M, Moments of madness, Multi, No flowers for graves (in fact no graves at all), Nothing logical to our plans, Nothing’s ever what it seems, Other, Others to invade children’s dreams, Painting pictures with words, People lie from ear to ear, Some hunt for power, The fairytale days are dead, The wrong method with the wrong technique using all the wrong lines, There are Crows, There is a drop of blood on the ground, There is darkness and death, Things are not what they appear, Things get broken (just another sacrifice), Things get damaged, We have to keep up appearances as long as we can – there’s too much to lose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlesienne/pseuds/Arlesienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We aren’t heroes. We bleed and cry, rave and rage on. We lose our socks and bite our nails. Us and perfection are two mutually-exclusive terms. We know little, but what we do know is important.</i>
</p><p> <i>Together, we can pull through.</i></p><p>The one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A commission aimed at delivering one of the possible stories of the Fifth Blight from a different perspective.

They even had a dead ox. 

He always thought about such finishing touches, those small details which add a certain kind of flair of class to the job. Broken crates, an upturned cart and that bovine carcass within sight range, then concealed tripwire, heavy boulders ready to be sent off tumbling down the unwary prey, an uprooted tree. Everything was in place, planned to perfection, an epitome of a job well done.

Not that it helped them.

The first one was a beast of a man, copper skin in stark contrast to his greyish chainmail. His white hair trimmed into fine dreadlocks tied into a short ponytail that poked from beneath a leather cap made him look as if he put a dead pigeon on his head. He carried a huge two-hander on his back, which probably weighed more than half Zevran’s own weight. The expression was one capable of making the most devoted drink-monger think twice before asking him for a shared pint. Could this be one of them? The contractor mentioned there were two of them, a man in his middle twenties with thorough martial training, but when asked about the other one, he just sighed with disdain and nothing could be heard from him. Unlikely to be this age, the giant surely looked like a respectable foe. He had company too. He narrowed his eyes, observing the little congregation forming on the road. An elderly woman just past her prime, with a still voluptuous figure, clad in crimson robes, carried an ornate walking stick. At least that’s what it appeared to be from a distance. Seconds after that, he regrettably realised it was a staff. _A mage, damn it._

There was a third traveller, a youthful auburn-haired woman in garish travelling clothes. The innocence of her round face and rosy cheeks made her hard to place in line with the warrior and the mage. A servant? Did they tag along with any? Either way, she was a handsome specimen and he felt professional regret at the upcoming loss. He was an aesthete after all.

Next to the auburn girl, a tall brunette with raven hair tied into a bun walked, looking lovely bar for the expression of an intoxicated poison dart frog. She even had colours of one, some bright paint contouring her eyes, giving her a somewhat savage appearance (though it could have been just the rags of all possible sources she was clad in). He lingered at her strategic quarters for a second, but then, much to his dismay, he noticed a huge branch tied to her back. _Unless Fereldan forests have magical trees that twinkle, the elderly lady got herself company, though the younger woman hardly looks as an apprentice. Not at the Circle at least._ A few steps behind her, bound to admire the view, walked a well-built man with a face of a lovable idiot. Could he be one of the pair? The description matched somehow, although the contractor didn’t mention him to be so… well, nobody could expect a Grey Warden to be smeared in something that looked like strawberries in cream. He was taller than him and the muscles were more pronounced than his, but the stains on the man’s face he hopelessly tried to lick off assured him he wouldn’t be as difficult to handle as his height and physique would suggest. He was grinning at something below his waist. Surprisingly, it wasn’t any part of the brunette.

_Maker, they have a dog too. As if a giant, two mages, an unplaceable pretty-face and a knightly idiot wasn’t enough for a day. One big damn family of them going for the last picnic._

If the giant was a peculiar though imposing sight, what should be said about the dog? They had dogs back home. They mostly stalked the streets, spread fleas, diseases and a variety of stenches, a typical daily routine mingled with eating garbage and changing the aesthetic value of numerous statues and porches with objects of their own production he preferred to avoid. But this one looked more like a wolf, provided one had no objections against wolves wearing collars of yellow suede and being covered in paint in patterns of suns, flowers and happy faces. They knew Ferelden was basically one huge kennel, but they weren’t prepared for that. This alone ought to arouse doubts.

_This is going to be long day._

“Oh, thank the Maker, we need help! They attacked the wagon, please help us!” – she could have tried better. Maybe she didn’t enjoy making up good lies. They did hit the wagon after all. It wasn’t going to trip itself on its own. Perhaps it did count as an attack, nobody asked for the cart’s opinion, after all. Or maybe she simply sucked at this art. Which would be a shame, for words were like lockpicks of one’s own making. “Follow me, I’ll take you to them” – that was even worse. Only an utter moron would believe that and not grow suspicious. He counted on the knightly idiot though. That’s for apostates being cunning like foxes. Here goes one childhood dream.

At the agreed gesture, the tree and all boulders went down. He saw a seventh shape spin out of the trajectory, barely getting away from being reshaped into marmalade. It was hard to tell who it could be, with men yelling orders, arrows nocked, strings of bows waiting for release, the prey scattering at first, recovering in a second and taking defensive stance. That blasted pup releasing a dreadful howl didn’t help and the painted suns, flowers and faces on its fur were distracting. It wasn’t all as expected, so with the silly scream of the apostate for help, he felt compelled to a cliché rally line.

_The Grey Wardens die here._ Not as bad as he thought it would sound.


	2. Chapter 2

First news: the auburn girl wasn’t a servant. Unless it’s customary in Ferelden to train maids and butlers to pin bad people with crossbow bolts and curse in Orlesian. A bard then. Oops. 

The giant roared and stormed off straight to the archers, literally smashing them with broad sweeps of his sword. Broken bows, boots and helmets started to miraculously materialise in the air. Zevran was almost certain he caught a glimpse of an unwillingly-parted wrist vanish on the horizon, but it could have as well been the blinding sun. The assumed Warden, still with pieces of strawberries on his lightly-stubbled chin, unsheathed his own sword and immediately got occupied with one of the assassins, fighting with a shield with a griffon emblem. He looked ridiculous with strawberry leftovers on his face, but it only gave him a surprise advantage. Yes, he was good, but skipping the fair play part would only do him good. The brunette mage spat something entirely un-lady-like and, of all things, shapeshifted into a bear, then ran off to guard the bard’s flank. The older mage was apparently busy crushing another assassin with a particularly nasty spell. He wondered what the apostate was doing – she was supposed to give them an edge and now a woman who, no matter how well-formed, could be his own grandmother, was turning Claudio into some incomprehensible mess in bright colours. Poor Claudio, he never liked paintings – or any form of art, to think of it. Oh well, time to move on. Zevran noticed the apostate turn towards the crimson-robed lady, her hands twinkling with tiny sparks of lightning. He ran towards the older mage; partly to offer some support to the dim-witted comrade, partly to get a better view of the bard.

Then, two things happened.

The first was hearing a dreadful howl and the feeling of the blasted dog’s jaws gnawing at his left elbow from behind. The beast’s teeth were certainly from a different set, possibly wyvern’s. The second: seeing the apostate turn into an ice statue, then exploding into a burst of piercing shreds, knocking the nearest three assassins off their feet, Zevran included, icy shards tearing into their flesh. He managed to shrug the impact off and get up quickly enough to see the person who took the stupid woman down.

It was a total surprise. The seventh member of the jolly band of misfits who barely missed the tree trunk was a female, too short and slender for a human, her face bearing little resemblance to anything he had seen in Antiva. The cold from the numerous ice spikes which dug into his skin and the sudden blood loss were making his vision blurry, so he couldn’t really tell her race. One thing for sure: young, twenty-five at most, yet her blue eyes spoke of something different. She was probably the most sensibly-dressed of all the group’s women, clad in a dark grey tunic of leather tassels, a leather hood-like helmet and knee-length boots of the same make. They lashed at each other, both paying little attention to the defensive side of the assault. When their eyes met, he saw surprise in hers, but then she outstretched her arms and from the long, glove-clad fingers of her palms, a bolt of lightning, bigger than any the apostate cast, was hurled towards him. He felt the dog bite into his hind quarters from behind…

And then everything went black and there were no luscious wood nymphs as there would be every time he fainted before. Alas.


	3. Chapter 3

_Maker, you did not really try to make the afterworld a bearable place. I’d swear it stinks as much as the ox we had._ He dared to open one eye to assess the state of the place he expected to spend his eternity in. He wasn’t particularly thrilled with what he saw. It looked like any other Fereldan road he travelled in the last week, bleak, dreary, some growth of unspecified origin covering its sides in this nondescript sense the locals had of what was supposedly “quaint”. _Wait. It_ is _the same road. Our ox included._  
  
He slowly regained his senses and groaned. He was lying on his left side, feeling as if he had been chewed by a bronto, swallowed whole, then spat out from either side and feasted upon again. Dried blood all over him, the elbow seemed to be missing some epidermis, yet muscles, tendons and bone were not damaged and although he felt awful, all parts appeared, more or less, to be in place. He also noticed he had a barely visible cage around himself, possibly a magic ward of sorts.  
  
And his supposed victims all circled around him.  
  
The white-haired giant appeared to feel a great desire to kick him and no doubt had the ability to do so, nobody seemed too happy about their current location and the dog growled like mad, yes, but for torturers, they had surprisingly few utensils ready. The short woman who made him pass out stood just steps away from him, eyes focused on some point he could not reach from his current position. Judging from the almost non-existent gestures of her slender fingers, looking like brushing flowers and not casting a spell, it was her who kept the cage in place. _Three mages… Crap._ As the whole ambush didn’t work as planned and there was pretty little choice anyway, he groaned and felt the watchful gaze turn upon him with doubled intensity.  
  
– Mmm… _what…?_ I… _oh_ – he muttered, peeking up and trying to make himself appear vulnerable. – I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me; _yet._  
  
His captor turned to him, eyes squinting and assessing his earthly state, clearly not impressed with the results of said assessment. A grunt. – That could be easily rectified. Let us see… – she came closer, her voice and gestures well-studied, speech prolonged theatrically, almost as if she was on the stage and he was another actor. Or a mime. Yes, a mime with literally nothing on his tongue, which, he scrutinisingly noted, happened to him very infrequently. – I could freeze you solid and then cast a fire spell – and poof! Away with you in a shallow puddle. Or perhaps you think you are hot. Too many foolish men make this mistake, don’t they, Morrigan? I think we agree. Then a good old fireball will do the trick, won’t it? And some grease… You seem like one who frets about how he looks, this hair of yours must take _hours_ to braid. Not only are you dead, but you die with your dandy gear in mishap. Seems like a good punishment. I really don’t like people who put my friends in danger.  
  
He narrowly shrugged off the desire to ask for that, given his pitiful state. – Of that I have no doubt. You are most skilled. If you haven’t killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?  
– You seem awfully glib for a prisoner – she said calmly, moving her head to her right. _You have no idea, really. I’m the master of the inappropriate._  
– It is my way, or so I am told – he seized on, given his limited options. – Let’s see, then. I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes? If so, let me save you some time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens – he introduced himself.  
  
A ruthless part of him didn’t hesitate to inform him it sounded tragicomic, said surviving Grey Wardens being way too lively for the tastes of the parties involved in the contract, currently occupied with fanning themselves (the strawberry knight) thumbing a crossbow he’d enjoy taking a closer look at (the bard) and high-quality glaring at his insignificant person (everyone else, the dog included). Alas.  
  
– Which I have failed at, sadly.  
  
He saw a slightest hint of a wry smile on the woman’s face. – I’m rather happy that you failed.  
  
_What?!_ She _is the other Warden? How come?!_ An opportunity to look at her in detail finally presented itself. To his surprise, she wasn’t only a female and seemingly experienced enough a spellcaster, which would be weird enough. She was an _elf_ too. He did his best to conceal his surprise. Rabbiting on anything different appeared to be a decent enough option. – So would I be, in your shoes. For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn’t it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one’s budding assassin’s career.  
– Too bad for you then – the smile grew more visible. The corner of this little mouth quirked, riding upwards, meeting an arching brow. An acrid word came to mind: _unimpressed._ That much for stunning success at seduction.  
– Yes, it’s true – he agreed. – Too bad for me.  
– Who hired you to kill us? – she inquired calmly. _Bad news. It’s the calm ones who are the worst._  
– A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? – he did his best to force his aching skull into cooperation. – Yes, that’s it.  
  
The elven woman exchanged glances with the strawberry knight, who had apparently enough time after the skirmish to lick himself clean off the dessert before their captured came to his senses. _The Warden. This guy is a Grey Warden._ This woman _is a Grey Warden too! Maker, they must be having severe unemployment problems._  
  
– Does that mean you’re loyal to Loghain? – she asked, her voice cool and composed, which reminded him of the icy shards piercing his skin, the bite stinging on despite its source having apparently melted away by the time he regained consciousness, leaving awful cold puddles around him. – I have no idea what his issues are with you – he tried to assure her. – The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes? – he took a deeper breath, seeing no staves or swords directed at him by the pointy ends. Nice, though only temporary. – Beyond that – he added – I’m not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.  
– And now that you’ve _failed_ that “service”? – she had blonde brows, which were ominously raised now. Was she blonde? He could not tell because of her helmet. No point in knowing that, no matter how rare that would be, at least in Antiva, but those brows were a truly fine sight in his final hours. – Well, that’s between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself – Zevran released a faint sigh.  
– And between you and me? – the elf folded her hands around her waist. There wasn’t much of it.  
– Isn’t it that what we’re establishing now? – he tried to crack a joke. Judging from the elf’s and the giant’s expressions, his efforts failed miserably, getting him closer to the pointy ends he wasn’t really interested in meeting.  
  
– How much were you paid? – a question broke the silence. He answered solemnly, trying to move the sore elbow, which, although successful, made him wince in pain: – I wasn’t paid anything. The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. Or so I understand. Which does make me about as poor as a Chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn’t for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest.  
– Then _why are you one?_ – she inquired with a disinterested glower.  
  
_Now that, o Warden, is a very thoughtful question. Still, you’re asking the wrong person._  
  
– Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition – he snapped – I suppose it’s because I wasn’t given much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I’m led to believe.  
  
He thought he saw something strange in the captor’s eyes. Sympathy? Understanding? Unlikely.  
  
– But don’t let my sad story influence you – he picked up quickly. – The Crows aren’t so bad. They keep one well supplied: wine, women, men. Whatever you happen to fancy. Though the whole severance package is _garbage,_ let me tell you – he tried to chuckle, but it came as coughing. Sloppy. Oh well. – If you were considering joining, I’d really think twice about it.  
– Thanks. I will take that under advisement – oh, her voice was dripping with sarcasm, basically spilling like a drunk’s administering of yet another round of drinks in a night of revelry. _Bad news._ People capable of grasping sarcasm are intelligent, which makes them formidable enemies. As if the ability to make ice statues wasn’t disturbing enough.  
– You seem like a bright girl. I’m sure you have other options – he remarked, half-way into a dazzling grin, but before he could think of anything else, the other Warden’s glare took the wind out of his sails. The savage-looking mage with black hair winced.  
– When were you going to see him next? – another question fell on him. All in a day’s work, Mother of Mercy…  
– I wasn’t. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results… if he didn’t already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I _should_ be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.  
– _If_ you had failed? – there was irony mixed with something like interest in the female Warden’s voice again. A bit warmer though. Little victories in a grand failure.  
– What can I say? – Zevran smiled in a way everybody was telling him was disarming. Which had better be more than occasion-appropriate flattery. – I’m an eternal optimist. Although the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don’t they? Ha ha – he said more than truly chuckled. – No, I don’t suppose you’d find that funny, would you?  
\- You’re a sharp knife, aren’t you – she muttered, watching him through no more than slints.  
  
_Ouch. That hurt._  
  
– Who are the Antivan Crows?  
  
The older mage, the one built like a statue the sculptor had been particularly generous with, cut in: – This elf is a Crow? – she gave him a scrutinising look he learnt to know so well. – That makes sense. They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. I understand they almost run that nation… and are hired only at great expense.  
– Quite right. I’m surprised you haven’t heard much of the Crows out there. Back where I come from, we’re rather infamous.  
– Not for being good assassins, I see – the female elf remarked dryly. Zevran gave her a kicked puppy look. – Oh, fine. This is what you Fereldans do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty.  
  
He hoped that would crack her down a bit – it always worked – but, much to his surprise and dismay, she remained adamant. She looked as if she was about to reply, however the knight cut her off from whatever she intended to say. – You came all the way from Antiva?! – he gasped. _Now here’s the easily-impressed one. Could have done more research earlier._  
– Not precisely. I was in the neighbourhood when the offer came – Zevran corrected him. – The Crows get around, you see.  
  
She turned her head to the right again and asked, curiosity mixing with doubt for receiving an answer: – Why are you telling me all this?  
– Why not? – he replied with a question. – I wasn’t paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely.  
– Were you paid to talk my ear off, then? – she made an almost unnoticeable grin.  
– Consider it something I’m throwing in for free. As it is, if you’re done with the interrogation, I have a proposal for you, if you’re of a mind.  
– A _proposal?_ You tried to kill me! You tried to kill _my friends!_ Isn’t it strange for you? – she snapped, bristling like a filly before the mounting block. _Now,_ friends _is such a complicated word._ Ensuring the snort died it his throat proved noticeably difficult.  
– Unsuccessfully! Besides, someone in your position can't take these things so personally, can you? Then unless you are quite stuck on cutting my throat or something equally gruesome, perhaps you _would_ care to hear a proposal?  
  
The rest of the party exchanged surprised looks. The elven Warden put her left hand on her hip, or where hips should have been inserted, fingers of the other one still keeping the cage in place. – I’m listening, make it quick.  
  
_Nothing much left to lose._  
  
– Well, here’s the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will – he paused for a moment, the blue eyes taxing him from head to toe. – Thing is – he took a deep breath – I _like living._ And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve _you,_ instead.  
– Can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you? – she pouted her lips. It was rather distracting.  
– I happen to be a very loyal person – he said seriously. – Up until the point when someone expects me to die for failing. That’s not a fault, really, is it? I mean, unless you’re the sort who would do the same thing. In which case I… don’t come very well-recommended, I suppose… – he stuttered.  
  
_Hello, you rogue goner. You are officially dead now._  
  
She put her arms around her waist again, fidgeting with the tunic. – And what’s to stop you from finishing the job later?  
– To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows... They bought me on the slave market when I was a child – Zevran said quietly. – I think I’ve paid my worth back to them and tenfold – he exclaimed louder. – The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can’t touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me – on principle – for failing the first time. Honestly, I’d rather take my chances with you.  
– Won’t they come after you? – it sounded more like a statement than a question. It was true.  
– Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help – he added more to himself than to his strange interrogator. – And if not… well, it’s not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it? – he shrugged his arms and hissed when he moved the wound. No bones were broken, that’s for sure, but nonetheless every part of his body was screaming for bandages, a hot spring somewhere calm and possibly a cremation afterwards.  
  
The Warden gave him a long gaze. It lasted for several seconds, an awkward gap in a scene any Crow was well-versed in. Finally, she said firmly: – You must think I’m royally stupid.  
– I think you’re royally tough to kill – he corrected her. – And utterly gorgeous – seeing her deadly glare, he added quickly: – Not that I think you will respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess.  
  
_A bad move._ She rolled her eyes with visible disgust. He sincerely hoped he was not gaping. _What’s wrong with you? This_ always _works!_ The bard behind giggled. He heard the dark-haired mage mutter to herself: – Interrogations are hard.  
  
– Why would I want your service? – she said in a rather mocking tone. Zevran saw a hint of an opportunity to strike.  
– Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated… now that my attempts have failed – he tried to sound as professional as it could get. – I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? – he gave a well-polished one-liner of his a try. – …No?  
  
It turned out as a terrible diplomatic move as Zevran Arainai of the Antivan Crows was quick to discover in the worst possible fashion. She bristled, barely containing anger turning her pallid face into a paper mask. – _No._ If you haven’t already noticed (which you ought to since he bit your posterior before I knocked you out), I’ve already got a dog to do that!  
– Pity. Seriously, I like a woman who knows exactly what she wants, I really do. So what shall it be? I’ll even shine armour. You won’t find a better deal, I promise.  
  
Silence fell among them. After a while, the elven Warden spoke again calmly: – I do like the armour bit… – she paused for a second, then continued: – What do you want in return?  
– Well, let’s see. Being allowed to live would be nice and also make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line, should you decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I’m yours. Is that fair?  
  
He felt her gaze piercing through his nonchalant demeanour. It was… strange. _Come on, off with this head of mine once and for all, just end it!_  
  
Then, the words fell.  
  
– Very well. I… accept your offer.  
  
_Oh, that’s unexpected._ He thought he was already one leg in oblivion.  
  
The strawberry knight gasped. He had a thing for the dramatic, nobody could deny him that, Zevran decided. – _What?!_ You’re taking the assassin _with us_ now?! Does that really seem like a good idea?  
– Alistair, just think: we need every pair of hands, _elvhen,_ qunari, dwarven, human, it is irrelevant – she stated firmly. – Look at me. We can’t get more ridiculous. So please don’t snark at anyone not trying to ditch us, could you?  
– Well, he did try! – the Warden going by the name of Alistair exclaimed angrily, huffing in righteous indignation. – Not just ditch us, he tried to _murder us!_  
– I have a feeling he won’t try again – his companion said flatly and shrugged, a shrug of high quality indeed. Alistair shook his head in disbelief. – Now we trust our innards? That’s hardly relieving.  
  
The brunette mage sniggered at him. – ‘Tis is something you got us used to, isn’t it?  
  
The elf sighed. – Morrigan, thank you for your contribution. You – she turned to Zevran, calm, small, yet imposing in an intangible way. – Keep in mind there are three skilled warriors and as many mages. Make it easier for everyone and don’t try anything stupid. See, our very own Morrigan is highly proficient in the ancient art of shapeshifting. Few could hope to find as experienced healer as Wynne. I am not bad with elemental magic. Leliana’s, Sten’s and Alistair’s martial prowess should still be tangible by your bones. There is also Shartan. He bit a darkspawn, swallowing its blood once and survived, making him immune to the Taint. Imagine him positioned behind you… In other words: if you make anyone angry, Morrigan will turn into a bear and make delicious _elvhen_ marmalade out of you, Wynne – patch you up afterwards, then I – play an artist and fetch us a pretty ice statue to decorate the camp. Just saying.  
  
Half-way in picturing himself the gory description, Zevran realised a peculiar thing. The elf was surely not Dalish – pale skin without a trace of tan, no _vallaslin_ – yet she had just spoken _elvhen_ – at least he supposed that much. Obviously, he didn’t know it, it was almost lost in the storms of history with but a few Dalish tribes still clinging to it, but the flowery, whisper-like word sounded eerily familiar, words out of time. If she was a city elf as most mages were, it was strange. How could she possibly learn it?  
  
– Besides… – she continued with a vicious smirk – as Wynne correctly pointed out last night, Shartan needs to be bathed regularly and I’d rather not lower his morale myself or make any of you do that. I’m afraid he must suffice.  
– Still, if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it has just knocked on the door and said hello – snapped Alistair.  
– It has already happened way before now – she sighed. – No use crying over spilt milk.  
– Shartan? You called your dog Shartan? – asked Zevran, utterly disarmed by the absurdity of the thought. – You don’t have a problem with that, I assure you, ser. You _really don’t_ – she replied coldly ( _Ice shards, do not think about ice shards..._ ). – Your faithful dog’s name is just as good a way to remind yourself who you are as any other – he heard her mutter.  
  
The brunette mage she called Morrigan snarked: – Fine plan. But I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on if I were you.  
– That’s excellent advice for anyone – the assassin added, trying to look helpful. The giant spoke in deep, thundering voice: – _Kadan,_ is that wise? He fights bravely and effectively, yet not manly-like. He is a _katari,_ not a warrior. Warriors do not attack below the waist.  
  
_Well, thank you kindly for the reminder._  
  
The elf looked at him and replied: – I value your point, Sten. But I want to avoid violence. We should save it for the Blight, not for each other. He can stay, keep armour in shape, collect firewood and take Shartan out of the camp every time he needs to relieve himself for a start… I meant the dog if it isn’t obvious to you, _fenedhis!_ – she turned at the captive with a snarl, apparently noticing his startled look. He didn’t know what that word meant, but the fact he angered her was obvious enough not to voice his concern and ask unnecessary questions as if he was in position to. – Ugh, just stay still while Wynne and I mend your blasted elbow.  
  
He didn’t expect to be spared, let alone have his wounds tended. The company grew more and more quaint. The elf thought, adaptable as he was, he could as well get used to such treatment.  
  
The auburn-haired bard girl smiled at him and exclaimed: – Welcome, Zevran. Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a good plan.  
– Oh? You are another companion-to-be, then? I wasn’t aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely – he grinned to ease tension. _Three’s a charm._  
– Or maybe not.  
– See? I knew we would find a common interest. Or two. Or three. Really, I can go on all night.  
– That’s _lovely,_ Zevran, but don’t be surprised we aren’t jumping with joy at the thought of you keeping night vigil – the elven Warden spoke dryly. – You will be watched most closely.  
  
Zevran nodded. – That goes without saying, madame. If you may… – he tried to stand up, but it didn’t work, not with that kind of being munched on. He collapsed back, the magical cage stinging him upon touch. _Brasca. That’s appearing useful for you,_ idiota. _Damn._ – Don’t move now – the Warden rolled her eyes and knelt next to him. She turned to the giant: – Sten, could you please hold him while I cast the cage away and Wynne mends his arm?  
  
The man nodded with disdain in his steel eyes taxing the wounded and approached the cage. The female elf made a strange gesture and the bars vanished. – Alistair, give me a bandage or two please. There is some water in my waterskin if you may.  
  
Alistair made an offended face. The longer Zevran looked at him, the more obvious his young age with all its implications was becoming. – Why are you doing this?  
– Isn’t it obvious? It may get infected.  
– I can imagine him doing the same for any of us, I really can! – he remarked snidely. The older mage shook her head: – Didn’t I tell you open wounds can fester, weep bloody pus and burn like the flames of Andraste’s pyre, Alistair? When I was healing your injured knee and you tried to scratch it?  
  
He saw the man shrink and bumble: – You are a wicked, bad woman, Wynne.  
  
– You’d better get used to this quickly – the strange elf said to the captive, sighing, pointing to the two with her head. He felt that giant, Sten, hold him by his arms. It ached. The Warden and the older mage everyone called Wynne made the same gesture and Zevran found himself in a whole new realm of suffering. It felt like being hit in one’s celiac plexus, but tripled. He groaned and inadvertently struggled against the steel grip. Sten roared angrily at him: – _Parshaara, venak hol! _You are making it worse! Move an inch and nobody can blame me if I accidentally rip those lanky arms of yours off.__  
  
A Qunari then! Who would expect that? He wondered where his horns were. There were Qunari mercenaries in Antiva, a force to be reckoned with, but they always had horns. Did somebody hurt Sten, making him lose his?  
  
He was shaken from his thoughts by Wynne’s voice, a bit like how Master Zenobia would sound on her best day. – Have you never had a healing spell applied, young man?  
– Errr, no? – Maker, he sounded pathetic. But the Crows wouldn’t spare their coin on their employees. Neither would they hire a Circle healer. They had some apostates, right, but they were… unstable, so the assassins had to care for themselves. Survival of the fittest.  
– It has to hurt for a while, but it will make you regenerate much more quickly. You should feel a bit better in a minute or so – she explained. It was true: he felt warmth enter his battered body, quite like a sip of fine brandy, but without the inevitable effects of hangover. It was so good he gave in to the spell and closed his eyes, tasting the moment, wordlessly begging it to last. Then pleasant cold spread on his forehead, causing him to raise his eyelids, and found the other elf towering above his chest, eyes watchful like a kennel master tending to an injured dog – wounded, yet still dangerous in its suffering – a wet piece of clean cloth in her hand, brushing against his skin, gently scratching the dried blood away. It was good to sense it go away. If somebody had told him what would have happened when he bid for the contract, he would have laughed at their face. He noticed a loose strand of hair fall down from beneath her helmet. It was blonde as he assumed. _A rare breed then. Well, not that it mattered here, but…_ Wherever his errant thoughts meant to go, they decided half-way it wasn’t just worth bothering. She then proceeded to wrap the bandage around his arm. He hissed inadvertently.  
– Stay still, you child – she chastised him. – Shartan could be a field surgeon. No vital tissue damaged. He could have well had you grounded if he wanted to. It will heal quickly, won’t it, Wynne?  
– Let’s see… – Wynne examined the wound, bleeding red against the linen paleness of the bandage positioned on the opposite side of the elbow, ready to be wrapped tightly. – Yes, I believe it’s a matter of two, three weeks at worst. Nothing to worry about even before that time. Your dog is a smart animal to move out of the spell’s way, my dear. Much smarter than you, young man – she said mockingly. Zevran sighed. Being allowed to live was nice, but if all of his newly-found companions were so outspoken _and_ chatty… He’d find true competition unlike anything he had known before.  
  
The elven Warden capably wrapped the bandage around the wound and reached out with her hand to help him stand up. Hesitantly ( _What the…?_ ), he took it and, trying to look as dignified as it was possible with his clothes tattered and bruises all over his body, which was quite a feat, he spoke: – I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation… This I swear.  
  
He gave a courtly bow. At least that was the plan of it. This little bastard of a voice didn’t forget to highlight it came off as absurd. Folding in half with the multitude of pains and aches hardly helped. – Now, if you allow me, may I learn the names of my masters?  
  
The elven woman shook her head with exasperation. – There are no _masters_ here, Zevran! Don’t you dare say that again or we will… disapprove.  
  
_Surprises again._  
  
The bard came closer, this innocent smile of hers in stark contrast to what she showed during the fight, and introduced herself: – I am Leliana, a bard from Orlais, Zevran. Nice to meet you.  
– All my pleasure, madame – he bowed for the lack of other options. Her hands did not leave the handle of her crossbow for a split second. Professional. He heard the human Warden sneer. – Well, this _charming gentleman_ over there is Alistair if you allow me both to introduce you to each other – the elf interrupted. – The senior Grey Warden in our jolly band. Next to him, you see Morrigan, our very own Witch of the Wilds – she pointed to the dark-haired mage. – Forget about it – Morrigan said in remark to his attempt to reach for her hand and folded her arms around her.  
– You wound me.  
– I have considered doing far more than that, trust me.  
– Your contribution to our company is essential as always, Morrigan – the elven Warden sighed. Her savage friend chortled, no regrets whatsoever. At least that one spared no expenses to ensure he knew his place. – And I am Wynne, Zevran – the older mage approached him. – Of the Fereldan Circle of Magi.  
– Why don’t you give him a visiting card? – Alistair sneered. – “Wicked old spellcaster. Heals people. Keeps demons at bay. Doesn’t mend shirts. Dislikes socks”.  
– That’s rude, Alistair! – his elven companion screeched. – Now you have the deal sealed, darling. No more mending clothes – Wynne retorted. Forgetting himself for a moment, Zevran leaned slightly towards the other Warden. – Is that like this all the time? – he whispered. – Regrettably, most of – she replied with a gloomy expression. – Oh, well. Sten of the Beresaad, a most noble warrior and the follower of the Qun – she introduced the giant. – _Shanedan_ – he replied dryly.  
– Most pleased, ser – Zevran greeted him, hoping the handshake following his clumsy bow wouldn’t rip his hand off. It wasn’t that bad, but close. There was the dog too. – Shartan, the best mabari in all of Thedas, you have already met – the Warden remarked rather warmly.  
– Is he truly yours? I was led to believe only Fereldan nobility kept the mabari – he heard himself blurt the words before he assessed what he had just implied. Damn. DamndamndamndamnDAMN. – I mean…  
– No offense taken – she was too polite to show her reaction, but he realised his foolishness and regretted saying anything. – Shartan and I are wartime companions. The mabaris bond for life.  
– And those… designs of his…?  
– Oh, that’s his kaddis – she explained patiently. – A paint with smell distinctive for the mabaris, so that they can tell the enemy apart in the heat of battle. Each of us wears some of it. I guess you will eventually have to, too…  
– But… suns, flowers and happy faces? Do they… mean something?  
– Oh, this particular design is Alistair’s, to be honest – she smiled visibly for the first time. Zevran returned the smile and exclaimed, working hard to sound cheery: – If so, you are a true artist, ser.  
  
Alistair shook his head in disbelief, but said nothing. – And you, my benefactor… You are Kadan, I understand?  
– Surely not for _you, katari_ – thundered Sten. – Oh? – he replied, confused.  
– Kadan is a true _Basalit-an._ I viewed her as a _bas saarebas_ and an _aqun-athlok_ at first, but I was wrong. She must be an _ashkaari_ and worthy of respect. But she is _my kadan,_ not yours.  
  
His mind attempted to make something out of what the Qunari said, but came to no conclusions. – Well, that explains a lot – he said tentatively. The supposed _kadan_ smiled again and he noticed her features softened. – That’s a Sten-exclusive name, so to speak – she outstretched her hand. – Melisandre Tabris.  
– Zevran Arainai. Most honoured – he replied earnestly and swiftly laid a kiss on her palm.  
  
Then, several things happened at once.  
  
The mabari growled warningly, the bared fangs gleaming as the growl rumbled in the meaty throat. The three women responded with a mix of gasps and sideway glares, Sten and Alistair letting out curses under their breaths. The elven Warden backed off quickly, the hand snaking out of his reach and behind her back with an agitated hiss: – What are you…?  
  
He realised too late the mistake he’d made. – It is customary in my homeland, madame – he mumbled, baffled. – I apologise if I offended you.  
  
This is to put it mildly. Damn.  
  
– The code of behaviour must be very different here in Ferelden.  
  
_Different like hell, granted._  
  
– …I guess we’ll need time to get used to the quirks of yours… – she sighed wearily, dropping into a weary murmur. – We’d better move on. Prepare for the tomorrow’s visit to Redcliffe.


	4. Chapter 4

They marched on in silence, the rural landscape unfolding before them in curious patterns of freshly-grown wheat, lone trees and an occasional cow looking like an Orlesian noblewoman: doe-eyed, full-of-herself and bored to oblivion. The mabari kept jumping around the two Wardens on the column’s forefront, backtracking to Leliana from time to time and barking excitedly. Zevran couldn’t pay much attention to him: being positioned between the frighteningly silent Sten and, otherwise delicious, Morrigan giving him murderous glares was making him rather uneasy. The wounds ached, but it wasn’t nearly half as bad as before the treatment. For now, he stuck to doing the only sensible thing in his current situation, that is: kept his lips sealed and watched his step.  
  
– So what is going to keep you from poisoning your target now that you have been allowed to accompany us, I wonder? – the mage’s words awakened him from his thoughts. – Is that directed at me?  
– Do you see another assassin tagging along with us, you idiot?  
  
Ouch. That hurt.  
  
– Apart from my oath? You are. You will be watching me ever so closely to make sure I attempt no such thing.  
– And why would I do such a thing? – Morrigan asked with no small share of derision. Head cocked, one hand on her hip – best quality, shapely and properly brought out by the choice of attire – the other on her staff, the lynx-like eyes unabashedly assessing him – a handler embodied. Whatever her deal with the elven Warden was, a surprising level of protectiveness was involved. He didn’t suppose it was any love for that Alistair kid. – Sneaking into our good graces in order to make another attempt is what I would do, were I you – she stated, matter-of-factly. Zevran sighed theatrically. – And here I was becoming rather fond of the idea of you watching me closely.  
– It would be a simple enough matter to poison the food in camp. Or cut our throats while we sleep – she suggested.  
– You seem rather charmed by the idea – he remarked, his voice rife with distaste as it was proper. The woman sniggered. – It would seem an appropriate result of sparing your life.  
  
_Well, now that you mention it…_  
  
– Ah. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you then – he snapped back. – The next time I am spared I will be sure to immediately turn upon my benefactors. Will that do?  
– Being touchy, I see – she chuckled, topping the effect off with a wicked smirk. – Well, we’re almost there, so you’d better prepare your poison quickly so it doesn’t go off.  
  
Indeed, while talking, the group descended into a desolate valley in a grove of sorts. It was surely difficult to find during the day, let alone at this first twilight hour. Ferelden was much colder than Antiva and the sun settled down earlier than in his homeland despite this late spring. For a brief, bittersweet moment, memories flooded him, the warmth seeping into weary bones from every sunkissed stone he only realised was there after irrevocably losing it, the scent of bougainvilleas and olive trees, the succulent flesh of ripe tomatoes achingly remindful of the mud and sloop Fereldans apparently ate for every meal of the day and night alike. Blessedly, it proved as quick to fade as it was to hit. In its stead, training kicked in, immediately proceeding to assess the area while bringing as little attention to himself as possible. Four tents around a fire pit, another one, slightly bigger, nested farther from them under a big oak. Still another, more a lean-to than anything else, sat far from them, nestled in the far corner of the valley; a smaller fire pit had been built next to it. Somewhere half-way between the lone tent and the valley’s entrance, a big roofed wagon stood, similar in construction to the one they carried all the way from Denerim, yet visibly actually suited to living on the road. A stocky dwarf with a demeanour of amiability around him peeked out of its door, clutching a younger one’s hand in his as they came closer. – Evening, Wardens! The day was busy, wasn’t it? – he greeted the group garrulously. – Just fine, Bodahn, thank you – Tabris replied with a smile. _So this one isn’t actually part of her crew. This mien is just business._ – It’s good to see you in shape – the dwarf babbled on, gesturing excitedly towards a sizeable fire pit with flames dancing across a bunch of kindling. – See you’ve got company, eh? Another fine addition to the crew?  
  
Before anyone could answer, the younger, beardless dwarf, a fawn-haired child, really, no more, ran towards the elf, wrapping his muscular arms around her legs with affection and, pointing at his insignificant person, exclaimed excitedly: – _Enchantment?!_  
  
Huh?  
  
He wasn’t the only one stunned by the commentary. – What? Heck, no, Sandal! _Zevran_ – the Warden opened her eyes wide as she accentuated – with a bit too much emotion to avoid pondering about the reason behind this overblown reaction. – His name is Zevran.  
  
He couldn’t lie: the youngster didn’t look satisfied with the answer. He taxed the newcomer and the party with a studied gaze, something way older and unsettling flickering behind the pale eyes for a moment, then announced firmly: – Ah, enchantment – and wandered back to the wagon. Alistair burst into laughter, patting himself on his knees. That Leliana bard broke into chatter too. – Dear, dear Sandal – muttered Tabris with no small deal of tangible annoyance. He felt his innards turn upwards and consider parting with him; so exposed. Everybody but her, even the blasted dog, seemed to be staring at him. – Who’s your companion, Warden? – inquired Bodahn. The knight cut into the conversation before his friend could answer. – He’s our new jester – he replied, grinning cheekily. – We acquired him as independent stockholders – he coughed, almost choking on self-satisfied laughter – but you can share him too as you fancy if you want, no strings attached!  
  
_S h a r e._  
  
To this verdict, Morrigan stopped the man in his tracks, slapping him through his back. – Now we have a dog _and_ an Antivan elf, but Alistair’s still the dumbest one in the party – she scoffed. – Anyway, what’s cooking?  
– No supper tonight – the man snapped back. – We ran out of newborn babies, witch-thief.  
– Back with making crappy words, are we? How very eloquent.  
– Can you two stop please? – the other Warden all but begged, an interesting change of pace. – Bodahn, pardon us, but we’re dying of hunger. Give us some time to prepare supper. We’ll tell you when it’s ready. What do we have in stock? – she turned towards the larger fire pit. The group followed.  
– I’m afraid we’re running low… – Bodahn said hesitatingly.  
– On what exactly?  
– Well… Pretty much on everything.  
– Oops.  
– Well, there is still one loaf of bread, some butter, a chunk of cheese, half a dozen eggs and a bunch of carrots. Sandal found an abandoned beehive, so I managed to collect a cup of honey. It could be used as coating or something. Don’t count us in though, we’ve already eaten. It was a bit boring when you were away. Oh, and a pile of meaty bones for the big, hard-working doggie – he added, squinting at the mabari. – That’s the only supply we’re always abundant with or so it seems. Wonder why.  
  
Shartan gave a happy bark and waved his tail. After the carnage of a half-hearted ambush, Zevran had a vague opinion on the source of abundance of meaty bones, but prudently decided against mentioning it.  
  
– Very well. We’ll get supplies in Redcliffe tomorrow, I hope – Tabris replied with a shrug. – For tonight, we’ll make do with a vegetarian meal. Apart from you, you lucky bastard – she cuddled her dog. Morrigan gave a short snicker, absent-mindedly playing with her gnarled staff, the twirling of the wood more than unsettling, given its capabilities in warfare. – The beast gets to eat better than we do and yet he begs for food. You’re overly dependent, you mongrel. Why don’t you hunt us something?  
  
Shartan put up a dignified expression – Zevran found himself wondering if it was possible, but couldn’t shrug off the illusion he did – and curled up next to the fire pit, seemingly ignoring the woman’s accusation. In a way, it seemed the most sensible thing to do. As much bad as one could say about those Southerners, their dogs had so far proved intelligent. – Well, the supper won’t make itself – the elven Warden agreed and walked up to a big chest – _Mother of Mercy, how can a woman be so horrible at swaying her hips?!_ – took out a bunch of rather life-weary carrots and started peeling them. – It’s fried eggs, buttered bread or toasts and honey-fried carrots.  
– Who will fetch firewood tonight? – asked Leliana, already halfway to putting her quiver away. The witch ceased toying with her staff and looked up with an unamused expression. – I will – she announced glumly, glowering at the human Warden. – I need to give myself a break from the company of The Dumb One and find an infant to nibble on.  
– And what about him? – the suspected Dumb One asked cautiously, his right index finger pointed accusingly at him. – Wasn’t that supposed to be his job?  
– Everything in time, Alistair – the other Warden replied calmly, the blade of the paring knife twisting and turning with something far beyond kitchen skills. – He’s not going anywhere on his own just yet.  
  
_Now, who’s the sharp one._  
  
– Alright, that makes sense. I’ll fetch you the clothes, Wynne, so that you can-  
– Not a chance. You’ve worked hard to get me not to mend your wardrobe anymore – the woman stated firmly, adamantly not moving a bit from her position near one of the tents. The man blinked. – What?! I can’t go to Redcliffe with rips in my clothes!  
– That’s your problem then. That will teach you – the mage crossed her arms and walked off to Leliana perusing the travelling bags, taking an iron skillet from another chest. Seeing Alistair’s desperate stare, his sister-in-arms muttered with a deep-drawn sigh: – If nobody will have done it by the time I’m done with the carrots, I’ll mend them for you, just don’t argue. Still, maybe there are any takers. Who would volunteer?  
  
An awkward silence, disrupted only with Shartan’s deep breathing, fell. Of course.  
  
– Well… if you let me, I could try to do that.  
  
_Brasca._  
  
The change was immediate. One innocent offer and here both Wardens were, gaping at him, surprised, no, completely flabbergasted. – Oh, would you? – the woman asked him. – Quite nice of you.  
– How do you know how to do that? Mending clothes, I mean. Is that some quirky Antivan thing? – Alistair narrowed his eyes. Now, the walking misery known as Zevran Arainai, violently ripped off the loving embrace of Antiva and lost in some unspecified part of the famous Fereldan mud, thus ready for anything, felt personally insulted. – I assure you, ser, that despite Antiva being considered a wealthy country for its merchant princes, few of the common folk could afford even considering getting themselves a new set of robes every time a rip shows up. I assume it is a Fereldan thing for a man not to be able to wield a needle, then? How _peculiar_.  
  
_Well, I tried._  
  
The man seemingly wanted to snap back, he was already preparing himself to counter the attack as much as his low standing allowed, but his Warden comrade somehow got between them, a rapid, slithering movement probably neither expected. – Fine, fine. Alistair, give him what you need fixed. The sewing kit is in my tent. Zevran – she turned to him. Suddenly, he noticed she was the only person to address him by his name and do it correctly. The accent. Literally everybody in this Maker-forsaken country seemed incapable of getting it correctly. For a moment, he just stared, dumbstruck, trying to process the reason behind it. Impaired hearing? They tried to show him they didn’t care? Now, _that_ would make sense… Except why _she_ would then?  
  
– Why didn’t you tell us earlier you possess such extraordinary skills? You could have swayed Alistair to your proposal at once! There are few things he despises quite as much as the darkspawn and puckered sleeves.  
  
And then this mischievous smile of hers emerged.  
  
_Wonder if that’s the last thing the darkspawn ever get to see._  
  
* * *  
  
They had nice eggs in Ferelden.  
  
It was too hot for most breeds of hens in Antiva. Too moist as well. With frequent downpours, chicken coops would often turn into fields of drowning wrath, so nobody really bothered keeping the birds at a bigger scale. For meat, yes, but eggs? No incentive. Adults could at least be heard from the courtyard should something nasty happen to them, but chicks would simply drown in silence, turning into pinky-yellow balls of down reaped too soon. Hatch and grow into a fat-breasted hen or a cocky rooster, capable of climbing high onto the traditional squary architecture to avoid drowning and prove yourself worthy of receiving the title of a neighbourhood nuisance every morning… or die. Survival of the fittest again.  
  
Quite surprising himself, he enjoyed their fried eggs, even seasoned with Sten’s stern glares and Alistair’s constant bickering about not getting his shirts puckered, judiciously mixed with being nearly as good an overseer as any master Crow. With the oozy yellowy goodness of spilling yolk, which you could smear all over your toast, who cared. Certainly not him.  
  
Naturally, observation didn’t take a sick leave. It wasn’t like something could rip the training out of you. It was like mortar, refusing to let go, no matter the circumstances. And so, he observed the group. No point in wasting time just on sewing. This activity was pleasantly unoccupying for the mind. They appeared to know each other well and generally made an impression of a pretty close-bound company with each knowing the rest’s advantages, never getting into the others’ domains. This wasn’t just a random group of individuals, he conceded; they formed a team. Suddenly, like the parting of the veil, it struck him this was the real reason the ambush failed: it wasn’t just the fact they were skilled and determined to carry out the task they were given… _unlike some_ ; it was their collective strength what made them strong. No Crow had ever worked _together_ with another one. They collaborated, of course, but that was different, short, brief alliances, strictly business-like and political in nature. It was a matter of pragmatism, but it obviously did not work in a longer run. That’s exactly how he ended up here.  
  
Everything was alien. No rules of his indentured service were mentioned. Nobody resumed the interrogation. The simplest of expected precautions, say, bared blades with pointy ends turned towards him prickled his sense of safety with their worrying absence. They even allowed him to sit with them around the fireplace. _Unbound._ It was apparent that despite carefully watching him, Tabris tried her best to ease tension. That bard girl, Leliana, pulled out a banjo and frolicked on it lazily. Shartan shamelessly lay with his belly exposed for caress, oozing animal heat. Considering a rather sudden change of climate, the dog was welcome enough for him to forgive him all the bites. Bites themselves objected to such treatment.  
  
So here he was, sitting between Sten and Alistair, both taller, grimmer and more muscle-endowed than him, the Qunari polishing his enormous sword, the human gorging himself on toasts with fried cheese as if there was no tomorrow. Considering the whole Blight affair, it could have as well been true. He himself must have been looking particularly stupid, that borrowed sewing kit and the man’s garments in his hands, desperately trying to salvage the clothes clearly having seen their fair share of textile abuse, possibly a heated encounter with a hungry and angry dragon. Slender and fairly unmanly even for his kind, the ideal target of any “elfeminate” jokes. He did start to sense some professional praise in stolen glances of the accompanying women after a while as he carried on without stopping, mending one shirt after another; then envy in Alistair’s eyes laced with Sten’s blank stare and an occasional grunt. He was rather surprised that the man couldn’t make a two with thread and needle. Had he led a sheltered life before he was conscripted? Maybe that’s why Fereldans who could afford it would go around in heavy plated mail all the time? He, on the other hand, could employ his dexterity to mending, sewing and even basic embroidery perhaps. It wasn’t an unfamiliar activity for him given the lifestyle he led. Only being captured by a target could do more harm to one’s assassin career than the opponent seeing their hunter with his pants suddenly falling down when a nasty button goes off.  
  
There was another incentive to this handiwork: he could observe his new companions in peace without being accused of staring or worse. For instance, Leliana seemed disturbingly interested in the career of a cobbler. Her pretty much monologue (for it could be hardly classified as dialogue with the elven Warden) on Orlesian shoe-making fashion seemed to go on for eternity. Wynne, for one, kept unobtrusively reading a small book in her heroic struggle for surviving the tale where fur-lined Fereldan boots were vile villains and embroidered rosy Orlesian slippers of sequin and satin – heroes of yore, grand and almighty. Who would have thought. Morrigan, on the other hand, found some rags while collecting firewood, then unceremoniously stole him some thread and a needle; she was now fashioning a ragdoll of sorts, eerily reminding of the male Warden. Sten kept to himself, seemingly occupied only with his sword and a whetstone. The sounds it made against the steel couldn’t possibly be dugged anything but quite disturbing. Alistair’s eyes seemed to jump between the garments being patched by the elf and what Morrigan was doing. There was also the case of the elven Warden, what’s her name… Melisandre; perched directly on the opposite side of the fire from him atop a fallen log they appeared to use as a bench, she had been taking care of the fire and staring into the dancing flames ever since set it all on fire with but a single casual stroke of hand after the brunette brought the firewood. They danced on the pale skin too, rendering it slightly golden, quite like the prized pearls in necklaces sold on the numerous vending _piazzas_ near the harbour. Such a vivid memoir, so distant now. The absent expression on her face evaded his judgment; this one, he could not really place.  
  
There was silence of another kind floating above the fire, one of a fragile moment of peace. The unfolding darkness around the camp and the single bright spot of the fireplace. It felt very alien… but strangely good at the same time.  
  
Guess who ruined the moment of solace.  
  
– So, Morrigan, will you at last tell me what are you exactly doing with those unidentifiable scraps of cloth?  
– And what you think I’m doing, Alistair?  
– Well, a doll of sorts. Which is suspiciously familiar.  
– Ah, the peachy hair and the moron’s grin gave it away, didn’t they? You must admit, the resemblance is _striking_.  
– What? Why would you make a doll based on how I look? And this piece of cloth over there looks like my sock!  
– It not only looks like it, it also smells like one. For _‘tis_ your sock, in fact.  
– You stole it! I’ve been looking for it for hours!  
– Oh, shut up. Even the dog isn’t interested in your moaning. ‘Tis but a single sock.  
– And why did you steal it?  
– To make this doll here – the woman smiled viciously. – If the elf doesn’t live up to my personal expectations and doesn’t stick those needles you foolishly let him use into your flesh the minute you are asleep, I will. This doll here’s for practice.  
– I hate you – Alistair angrily took the plate with honey-coated carrots, stuck the biggest one on a stick and swallowed it whole, netting a disinterested shrug from the brunette. – Ask me if I care – Morrigan spluttered with grim satisfaction and the other women only shrugged their arms wearily. He felt embarrassingly compelled to do the same, in fact. It took a bit of self-control to stay shut.  
  
– Why do you call yourselves “Crows”? – a question broke the uneasy silence. – Crows are scavengers, not killers.  
  
A well-placed elbow from the Circle mage helped realise Sten’s question was directed at him. Soundlessly swallowing, he replied warily: – I heard that at one time they considered calling us the Kestrels. But… you know – he picked up awkwardly a little while after noticing the focused gaze of Tabris fixed firmly on his person as he spoke. – It didn’t sing. It didn’t dance.  
  
_Congratulations, Zevran: top-tier storytelling skills, damnit._  
  
The Qunari snorted. – Bah, humbug. Beresaad doesn’t sing too, _katari_ – it matters not whether it does or not. Discipline and effectiveness is all that matters.  
  
_Not much of a_ boisterous _bruiser, now, are you?_  
  
– Hey, why wouldn’t we actually sing something? – Leliana exclaimed excitedly. By that time, he had already come associate her with a little perky bird – the kind to eat carrion’s eyeballs, probably. No matter the topic discussed – and, sweet Maker, they took talking seriously – the distinct kind of pink-coloured cheerfulness and energy remained. He had to admire the pose. No real bard could really be that innocent, not with the role the Grand Game had in store for them. Wherever her chosen guise aimed at learning the most about the Wardens and their suicide quest or some more nefarious purpose altogether, it clearly worked. He didn’t expect the male to suspect a thing. – There was much more singing in Orlais. I believe few people sing in Ferelden because of the Blight, but it could make us all forget for a moment. Are there any famous songs about the Crows in Antiva, Zevran? Sing us one.  
  
_What?!_  
  
– Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t sing as a rule – he replied cautiously, readying himself for whatever would come next. She couldn’t have possibly been serious. – Surprisingly as it may sound to you, I don’t eat babies alive or torture people with my voice.  
– At least not by singing – Alistair jested. Here, another useful tidbit: the man strived hard to be funny. The attempts he’d witnessed so far never ceased to be a pain to witness.  
– Maybe I could compose a short piece about us. I didn’t do that while in Lothering and I miss it dearly – the redhead kindled at once, the delicate, well-kept hands already plucking a note on the comical fat banjo. – Two Wardens ambushed by a Crow,  
Foes but one each slain in a row,  
The last one kneeling on his knees,  
A merciful hand now clutched in his,  
He rises, bows and takes his vow.  
  
_…Remind me to pick my dignity before leaving, thank you very much._  
  
– Why don’t we play “I spy” then? – inquired the male Warden with offense. – The outcome would surely be just as interesting and less disturbing.  
– I believe we should leave it until tomorrow night – Tabris cut in, smothering a yawn and effectively cutting an inevitable quarrel off, a small blessing in the world of suck. – We need to wake up early to set off for Redcliffe, so I’d suggest we go to sleep now if nobody’s still hungry.  
– I think you are right, my dear – Wynne agreed, the book closing with an oddly-final thud. – Goodnight everyone. Don’t snore too much.  
  
With no further preamble, the woman stood up from her makeshift log couch and retreated to what had to be her tent, some quiet hum on her lips. Sten nodded to the rest and did the same, even with the amount of food just finished marching without a single slip of pattern; Morrigan rose as well and, clutching the ragdoll, walked away, treating herself to a farewell glare at him and the human Warden. – Tomorrow then? – Leliana asked Melisandre, hardly not bouncing with glee. – Certainly – the elf replied, nodding with a placid smile.  
– I will go then, I didn’t realise how sleepy I am! – the bard laughed in delight and scurried off to her own sleeping place. The delicate stitching of teal thread suggested which one she picked. The Warden waved to her, then stood up and turned to him. – Will you excuse me for a moment and keep the fire on? Alistair and I must discuss something.  
– Oh, we do? Can’t it wait? It’s warm around the fire – the other Warden protested.  
  
_Come on, you serious? It’s not polite to discuss decapitation with the prospective victim!_  
  
– _Yes, we do._ The fire won’t go anywhere. Once we’re finished, you can warm yourself again or I’ll keep the watch for you. Oh – she turned to him again. – Shartan will keep you company. Can you do two things simultaneously?  
– Yes, of course – he readily agreed. – I multitask often. I’m just finishing the last one – he pointed at the neat pile of patched-up clothes.  
– Thank you – she replied and he couldn’t help but think it was an honest claim.  
  
* * *  
  
She took him to the camp’s outskirts where nobody could hear them, deep behind the trees covering the valley’s slopes. For one blissful moment, everything dissipated, leaving only the simple details. Grass under her thin-soled shoes. Leaves of the oaks in the grove rustling on the wind. The evening dew in the air. Even after those months, the shy marvelling at the countryside remained, she reflected, walking at Alistair’s side. So much of change in this time. Death, fear, pain, of course, but now, those were simple. There were positive changes as well. Friends, weird, unexpected friends, friends with issues of different sort than she did, ones requiring careful taking care of. _Real_ friends. People to look up to and trust. Lean a little on, even. A family away from home. She thought of the ambush and the strangling fear of losing again. Blood on her face, not hers – _that’s worse_ – then trickling from her calf. Leliana’s cry. Maker, no, not this. From that point onwards, it was pure fighting like a demon. In a way, possessiveness breeds heightened pain resistance.  
  
It’s the fear of what could have happened that comes afterwards what half-kills.  
  
Breathe in, breathe out, inhale, exhale, repeat. It should have been easier.  
  
A warm breath, close enough to be felt on her face, and the even warmer tone of Alistair’s speech. – What did you want to discuss? Maybe… you’d tell me how handsome I’ll look in patched clothes at the audience with Arl Eamon and that you’ll appreciate the view? – he suggested cheekily in his usual playful demeanour. _Thank the Maker for people like him. You are too good for this._ – Well, to be honest, I wanted to talk about what happened. _Today_ – looking up, she answered seriously, only half-aware of a stray stalk of tall grass she’d been thumbing. He changed immediately, a peculiar frown she had long become familiar with. It almost screamed “Alistair of the Grey Greatly Disapproves”. – I don’t think that sparing that Zevran guy was a good idea.  
  
Frowning herself probably wasn’t polite, but happened. – Then you believe it was wrong of us?  
– Well, to put it bluntly, yes, I think so. I was surprised you disagreed with my point back on the road.  
– Are we to assume slitting his throat would’ve been better? Alistair, you know it’s not so simple… – she sighed, immediately regretting the crude deadpan. It was still a mystery why _he_ didn’t lead. Those puppy eyes could make an ogre go commit suicide, weeping over its unfulfilled life. – I never said it was a _good_ idea. It’s just it was a _right_ one; all the other options were much worse. If we hadn’t taken him along, either we’d have to have him killed or those Crows would. If a bit of what Zevran said is true and there is no reason to think otherwise, a single one wouldn’t have a chance against them. Think about it in a different way – she added after a pause. – Making him stay bids us some time against Loghain. He is probably thinking we’re dead or that we will be soon. Those Crows surely have some set time to fulfil a contract; for some time, provided we keep our profile low, we are safer with one Zevran to watch than with all the lackeys Loghain can hire hunting us down, knowing that we are around.  
– There _is_ a point in what you say. But I just don’t trust him. There is nothing to prevent him from stabbing us in our sleep.  
– I doubt he will try again – she stated with a shrug before firmly adding: – He can only lose that way.  
  
Trying to force her features to soften, she picked up in a hopeless attempt to dissolve the grim atmosphere in the grove. – Alistair, if it helps ease things for you, I will put a sleep ward on him. Let’s say in case he snores or worse.  
– What a relief.  
  
_Sarcastic scoffing? This, I can work with._  
  
– Oh, would you like the same spell cast on you then? – picking herself up from her spot against the oak, she pretended to analyse the possibility. – Because you do. _Awfully_ , to be honest.  
  
The male Warden smiled, disarmed at last. – I’ll consider your offer.  
  
She affably patted him on his arm ( _don’t squirm, it’s Alistair, you_ trust _Alistair, just do that much…_ ). – Good to hear that. Let’s go back, I will keep watch.  
  
In hindsight, she should have laced her mouth shut after that. The conversation wasn’t meant to progress in the way it ultimately did. They turned around, ready to return, Alistair with this amazing shining smile capable of disarming anyone, when something forced her to stop and slowly mumble something she came to regret immediately after uttering it. – Remember what you said about the Blight? How it brings people together? I just see there is hurt in him. I have not figured out what it is yet, but there is time for that. I am simply willing to give him a chance. I don’t want to see yet another one of my kin shattered if he has yet the strength to stand. He is… There is a word for that. Solas. We just can’t afford losing a single one like that.  
– But he’s not your _kin_ , Melisandre! – he moaned in despair. – He’s not like you. He’s not from Denerim, not even from Ferelden. And on top of that, he’s an assassin! He’s _alien!_  
  
A l i e n.  
  
Aren’t I alien too?…  
  
He froze in place when he finally bothered with a serious look at her face. He clearly didn’t like what he saw and, Maker, she couldn’t blame him. – You don’t understand, do you? – she whispered before forcing her feet to carry her back to the camp at last, cutting the exchange short. Judging by the expression, he must have suddenly felt like a complete scumbag.  
  
_Well, I tried. And screwed up beautifully. ___  
  
– I didn’t mean…  
– Don’t say anything – her tone seemed to have literally doused him, the result of it being a pang of guilt gnawing at her guts. – That’s not your fault, I understand.  
  
And then he stood alone.


End file.
